


Out of Mind

by malatruse



Series: i survived mount massive and all i got was this stupid existence [2]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bonding, Ghost Sex, M/M, Multi, Other, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malatruse/pseuds/malatruse
Summary: Two guys and a nanoswarm on a roadtrip across America. Featuring such classic tropes as: being chased by a powerful malevolent corporation, sneaking out of Canada, trying to topple the aforementioned corporation by any means necessary, murder, and other wacky antics. Takes place 6 months after human disaster.





	1. One

The walrider had told him, once, that only people who had been through real horrors could sustain it. That unless something horrible had happened to you, you never wholly believed it _could_. If you survive a plane crash, you know it can happen, could happen again. After you stare death in the face once, you see it all the time, hovering around every corner.

Miles wasn’t sure how true that was, but in his time as The Host, he had learned some things weren’t worth questioning. And that went for people, too. Sometimes you didn’t want to know just how many people they’d abducted or what they’d done with them.

It went without saying he’d learned that particular fact the hard way.

Not that there was really a soft way; you couldn’t be told something like that and accept it at face value. It was something you had to go through before it seemed real. And didn’t it all just circle back around on itself... maybe there was some truth to the walrider’s theory after all.

Miles supposed that had been part of the reason he became a journalist, because people didn’t believe something was going on unless you showed it to them. Well, that and the fact that he could get paid for sticking his nose in other people’s business.

He was considering this fact when he heard the sound of a key being violently shoved into the front door, and Waylon burst in.

“How’d it go?” Miles asked.

In answer, he tossed a newspaper on the coffee table and went straight to the bathroom.

Miles picked up the paper. Front page headline ** _:_** _Whistler Municipal Building Destroyed, Terrorism Suspected_.

“Well, shit, _that_ news spread fast.”

**We were not exactly subtle this time.**

“Hey, you don’t get to complain about subtlety after what you pulled.” He dropped the paper back onto the table. “The fact that a small town like _this_ is getting the news means they’re not trying to cover it up. Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“Definitely bad,” Waylon said, stepping out of the bathroom. “They’re not only trying to pin us as terrorists, but also giving plausibility to increasing security in their remaining other locations.”

Miles groaned, throwing his head backwards. That meant they’d be on the move sooner than expected, but it also meant yet another long car trip.

It had been six months since Mount Massive, and since then they’d only managed to clean up one other Murkoff facility. It had taken far more research and scouting and _delicacy_ than he’d expected, and taken a whole lot longer than he’d cared for. And now that it was over, they needed just as much delicacy to not get caught.

Somebody had to go around and act like a friendly tourist, and Waylon had—with some regret—given a list of reasons why it couldn’t be Miles. Something about a guy missing two fingers being too conspicuous, and he had to admit, it did sound a little like something out of a Hannibal novel.

So it was Waylon who ended up schmoozing information out of the regulars at the local bars, and Miles staying indoors itching to destroy something. He recognized this urge as mostly coming from the walrider for the most part, but staying in a kitschy bed and breakfast wasn’t helping. And next it would be a run-down motel, and after that, maybe the back seat of the car.

“What a pain. So much for that beachside vacation, huh?” He cracked an eye open, but all he got from Waylon was a worried look.

“I think...” he hesitated. “I think we should skip Vancouver and head east instead.”

Miles blinked in surprise. “Seriously? I was planning on getting some decent sleep in the city, and I bet you were too. “

“I know, but the longer we wait, the harder it’s going to be.” Unspoken was the fact that there was no knowing what they’d find the next time, either. Enough fuel for a year’s worth of fresh nightmares, probably. Not a prospect Miles was particularly looking forward to, but he knew what would happen if they didn’t act. The old standards were already starting to wear the thin, and once the contact high from Whistler died down, the walrider would begin to grow hungry.

“...Yeah, okay. You got the maps?” Being on the run meant none of that fancy GPS technology, and the first thing they’d done emptying their accounts had been to buy a hefty stack of maps. And even though they took turns driving, Waylon had more of a knack for navigating, so he usually ended up carrying them around.

He patted his jacket pocket—the jacket Miles had bought him when they’d started heading north. Obviously not as nice as Miles’, but apparently pretty good at keeping the cold out, something that plagued Waylon more than him. Besides, everyone needed a cool jacket. That was just basic fashion. “Got them right here. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. For now, I need you to help me look over the passports and make sure everything’s in order for the return trip.”

Miles grimaced, but started digging through his bag all the same.

-

Despite the season, there was a cold wind blowing outside, and it passed right through the walls of the old building they were staying in. Miles was used to the cold but not the wind; it reminded him of something he couldn’t quite pin down. So he lay awake in bed, his back to the outside wall.

“Waylon?” he asked finally.

On the other side of the room, Waylon rolled over sleepily and looked up at him. “What?”

“Do you...Do you think we got them all?”

The silence that followed was contemplative. “Yeah. We did. We got them all, Miles. Every last one of them.”

His words, true or not, were enough to warrant an, “Okay,” and he watched Waylon roll away from him in response, satisfied with that answer.

That night he had nightmares that had nothing to do with the walrider. Dreams of red lights strobing, of wandering lost through endless hallways, and of hollow-eyed children waiting deep underground.


	2. Two

They checked out in the morning. Miles hung back, hands in his pockets, as Waylon handled the transaction. They were “off the grid” so, no credit cards, just hard cash. That also meant no cell phones or computers, which made the whole trip a hell of a lot more boring and complicated. Well, there was the occasional internet cafe. And sometimes Waylon would make a call, but it was always on a one-use phone, and always in a town they were just passing through.

Miles didn’t need to ask who he was calling, he just wished Waylon didn’t always come back looking so dejected. They hadn’t talked about it since leaving that far-off Colorado motel, but before the start of their assault on the Whistler facility Miles had seen him carefully take off his wedding ring and set it on the bureau. And though he kept it close, he hadn’t put it on again afterward.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped, but it was just Waylon. “Stop daydreaming and get in the car, we’ve got a border to cross.”

Miles waved him off, shrugging out of his grip. “We’ve got a lot more than that to do.”

Despite his confident words, his stomach was churning as they got in the car. If something went wrong at the border they’d have a lot more trouble ahead, people would die, there would be—

**Enough of that.**

Miles tried to relax in his seat. It wasn’t like Canada had any particular beef with the U.S., after all. He put his head on the window and watched the cars and buildings file past. It might be a long time before he had a chance to leave America again. _It should feel like I’m coming home,_ he thought, _but instead I just feel trapped._

**As long as you’re my host, you will never be trapped.**

He snorted, but the walrider’s words stuck with him even as they approached the border crossing. Times like this made him wish he had a phone to mess around on to make the time go faster. It probably would have malfunctioned anyway though, considering the whole walrider thing. They’d never really tested the extent to which it fucked with technology; he could drive a car okay, but not use a phone. There was also that one time it fried his toaster, but he was pretty sure it did that on purpose.

The car came to a full stop, and Miles realized he’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed they’d reached their destination. A border agent or something was standing nearby talking to someone Miles couldn’t see, and when he noticed them waiting he gave the person a small wave and headed towards the car.

The official tapped on the window, and Waylon rolled it down. “Morning, boys. Passports?”

They’d had the forethought to have those ready for inspection, and Waylon handed them over with an embarrassed smile. “I really need to update that picture,” he said ruefully, and Miles saw the official’s eyes drop to the photo and back up again, barely glancing at the actual forged information.

“You boys have any drugs, firearms, or dangerous materials in the vehicle?“

 _Only if you consider my dick a dangerous material,_ Miles thought, and then the walrider laughed, and then he remembered that oh yes actually, they _did_ have something dangerous with them.

But Waylon was already shaking his head no, with that innocent face of his, and the official was nodding and asking, “Anything else to declare?”

And here, the urge to deny, _No, no, we got nothing,_ but Waylon had told him to keep his mouth shut. So instead of sounding suspicious, he let Waylon question the official about whether souvenirs needed to be declared, and if so, what kinds, and were there forms to fill out?

 _That_ got them moving on pretty quickly. Even so, Miles held his breath for as much of it as he could, trying to channel whatever Jedi mind powers the walrider might possibly have and direct them at the border guards.

Fifteen minutes later, Miles let himself breathe a sigh of relief. _Things went pretty okay._ As they damn well should have, considering how much trouble it had been to get two well-forged passports.

-

Still, for paranoia reasons, they drove through the night. Miles offered to take the first shift, because he felt surprisingly well-rested for once, and wanted to relish the feeling while he could. That, and the view.

Once they got east of Seattle, the light pollution tapered off quickly, and the sky was all stars. Well, stars and planes and satellites. But mostly stars. And the land itself was wide open. Aside from the few roadtrips in his childhood, which he’d spent most of curled up in the back seat with his gameboy, he’d spent most of his life in Boulder, surrounded by tall buildings.

He knew they’d be back that way eventually, if the maps were to be trusted. Not through Boulder itself but through the Rockies, and from there on to the Appalachians. Counting the Pacific Ranges, that was three mountain ranges in...hm, probably about a week.

 **Watch the road** , the walrider reminded him.

Miles turned his head from the sky and back toward the path in front of him. They’d be staying on this road for a long time, so he didn’t have to worry about getting lost or taking the wrong exit. Since he didn’t need a navigator, Waylon was curled up in the seat next to him, backpack pillowed between his head and the window. He had the radio on but the volume low, the signal fading in and out like a weird melody.  Every once in a while, a car would pass by in the opposite direction, but for the most part the road was deserted. Just the three of them and the stars and the radio.


	3. Three

They hadn’t really talked about Mount Massive since they’d decided to personally go after Murkoff, and they hadn’t talked about what they were going to do afterward, either. He knew it had affected both of them pretty strongly, but hadn’t thought much of it beyond that.

So when they’d been driving east through the wide mountain paths for a few hours and Waylon asked him to shut the radio off, he didn’t immediately see anything strange about it. It was just one of those things they didn’t talk about, like how Miles wouldn’t let anyone cut his hair, or how Waylon would immediately leave the gas station 7-Eleven if certain songs came on.

“You okay?” Miles asked finally, when the silence had dragged on uncomfortably long.

Waylon snapped his head to the left. “...Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

They drove on for a little longer, no signs of an explanation forthcoming. “Man,” Miles said, “Next time I’ll make a badass driving playlist _before_ we roadtrip across the country.”

“I don’t...” Waylon started. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

Miles could have laughed. Instead he pulled onto the shoulder, shut off the car, and turned to face Waylon head-on. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“No, not like—not like I’m going to do something drastic,” he clarified. “I meant...this. This trip, what we’re going to do when we reach our destination. And I know we talked about investigating possible locations out west and even overseas, but...”

 _Ah,_ Miles thought, _I see where this is going._ “But the last one was too much for you.”

Waylon opened his mouth, almost got a word out, then shut it and nodded. “I know we made a promise to see this through, it’s just... I’ve never shot anyone, not even at Mount Massive, let alone a child... I keep thinking, those kids were around the age of my boys...”

“What those fuckers did to them couldn’t be undone, you know that. We couldn’t leave them there, and we couldn’t let them run free either.”

Waylon looked at him, mouth slightly open, but instead of arguing, he just faced forward. “Of course _logically_ I understand that. Forget it, all right? Let’s get going.”

Miles drove on, and eventually Waylon flicked the radio back on. The rest of the day’s drive was mostly silent, with one of them occasionally commenting on some sign or landmark (“Visit Scenic Butte!”).

Around early evening they rolled up to a roadside motel, and it wasn’t until Miles stepped out of the car that he realized how restless he was. He stretched, and the feeling of his joints popping after the tense ride was almost blissful, even if it was accompanied by the shifting of nanites. It was still spring, but in Montana it was hot enough that the heat was rising off the pavement even with the sun almost gone.

He looked around for Waylon, but he’d already gone ahead. That made him deflate somewhat, and instead of going in right away he lingered outside for a while.

**He doesn’t hate you, you know.**

“Oh, well _that’s_ a relief, he doesn’t actually _hate me_. Real comforting.”

**Stop being childish. If you act like he’s wounded you, he is going to notice. And then he really _might_ start to hate you.**

He sank back against the hood of the car. “Yeah, okay, I understand that, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

**Pressing him about his misgivings is not going to help anything. It may not be easy, but we don’t have a choice, if we want Waylon to stay.**

_Just act like everything is normal, huh?_ That seemed almost passive aggressive. But maybe Waylon would prefer it that way? Miles ground his teeth. It wasn’t something he could just ask, for that exact reason.

He stood up and double checked to make sure the car was locked. Across the lot he could see Waylon poking his head out the door, probably wondering where he was.  With a grunt, he pushed off from the car and started to trudge over to the motel. Waylon spotted him and motioned him right, holding up a series of fingers. Miles nodded back to show that he understood, spent a second trying to figure out what Waylon was trying to communicate, then shot a confused thought at the walrider.

 **Room number,** it said. **122.**

“Damn, he could just yell it at me.”

 **Waylon has made a career out of being quiet,** the walrider pointed out.

“Yeah...I guess you would know.”

**I could show you, if you wanted.**

But he wouldn’t, and they both knew it. That invasion of privacy represented a line Miles couldn’t let himself cross, the kind of comic book villain territory he wanted to avoid.

Behind him, a bird sang once, then fell silent. He turned, scanning the horizon, and stood frozen by just how much sky there was. Eventually the walrider got him moving again, and he started looking for their room number.

The door was wedged open with a shoe, and Miles kicked it inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Careful with that,” Waylon said from the nearest bed. Miles nudged  the shoe again, just to be contrary, then glanced around the room. Typical motel, but something about it made him restless, and he did another sweep, less out of paranoia than a need to find some way to get his twitchiness out.

 **Shower** , the walrider said, and he nodded, heading for the bathroom. Reached for his bag. Groaned. “Shit. I forgot all my stuff in the car.”

“You go ahead,” Waylon said, getting up. “I’ll grab it.” He put a hand out. “Keys.”

With a grateful smile, Miles tossed him the keys and shut the bathroom door. He let out a long-held sigh and dumped his clothes on the toilet, climbing into the too-small stall and yelping in surprise when the freezing water hit him. It warmed up decently quickly though, and he ducked his head under it gratefully, stopping just long enough to tug the hair band out of his drooping ponytail.

He’d long gotten over his shyness when it came to the walrider, who drank in the hot water against their skin with something very close to joy.

Miles’ bliss was interrupted by a loud thumped against the front door, followed by a flurry of knocks, and grumbling, Miles got out and slung a towel on.  Leave it to Waylon to forget his room key for the handful of minutes it took him to run to the car. Yes, Miles had been known to take prodigiously long showers, but this was not one of them.

It took a minute to get the knob to turn, since one had was entirely devoted to holding his towel in place. The knocking continued until he yelled, “All right, hang on!”

He opened the door. It was not Waylon. Waylon was definitely not three men in suits carrying guns, he was pretty sure. 

The one in front coughed. “Mr. Upshur, if you could please put some clothes on, we would like to speak with you.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t scrape any other words together over the constant litany of _the plan, how did they, we’re off the grid, the passports, but we were fine in Canada,_ and over top of it all, _where’s Waylon?_

The walrider shifted from within him, biting into his skin. **We don’t have time for this, get a hold of yourself.**

_I don’t—_

“Mr. Upshur. Clothe yourself or we’ll be forced to bring you in as you are.”

“Where—“ he began, but the walrider snapped his mouth shut. It nodded for him and put his free hand up in a gesture of surrender, and walked back to the bathroom. **Calm down, your heart rate is too high. Let me handle this.** It turned to observe the men who’d followed them inside, then dropped the towel and wrestled Miles’ body into his clothes.

“Good, now put your hands behind your head and slowly turn around.”

He felt his hands go up, and the walrider said quietly, **Stay calm. I need to kill them quickly to avoid making too much noise.**

 _Oh god this is really happening._ Miles’ stomach flipped. Excitement surged through him, and it was only mostly the walriders’. These weren’t innocent children, they were Murkoff agents sent to capture him and kill Waylon, and he could see no reason not to get rid of them before they could do carry out their mission.

Slowly, they turned around. Two of the men stood in the main room, guns trained on them. The third stood guarding the front door.

Miles found himself grinning . “You’re _fucked_ ,” he spat.

The one on the left  flicked the safety off his gun, and they locked eyes. He didn’t see any fear there, just weariness, like he’d heard all this before, and he thought, _him, that one first._

Miles closed his eyes, and the walrider burst out of him, snapping the man’s neck before he could even scream. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

The one next to him fumbled with his own gun, mouth slack and hands shaking. He took a breath, and then the walrider was on him, squeezing the gun out of his hand with one arm and piercing his chest with the other. It handed the gun to Miles, who carefully put the safety back on.

When he looked up the walrider had already moved on to the one by the door, pulling him farther into the room. This one it decapitated, crushing the skull in one clawed hand before letting it—and the body—drop.

Then it was just the two of them again. Miles’ shoulders slumped as he let himself relax. Now all he had to do was find out how they’d found them, and how many more there were—

And that was the moment the door opened, and Waylon stepped in, accompanied by two more agents. He froze, face draining of color. “Miles, what the f—what the fuck?”

Miles started to smile in relief, then stopped. Waylon didn’t look at all captured or happy about what he’d walked in on. The walrider rushed forward from behind him, dragging both agents into the room and slamming the door, but—

“Wait!”

It made a noise of frustration, turned back to him without letting go of the two men—no, one of them was a woman.

**What?**

_Something’s wrong._  He turned to Waylon. “What’s going on?”

But it wasn’t Waylon who answered, it was one of the agents. “Oh my God,” he moaned, going limp in the walrider’s grasp. It let go, and he sank to the floor. “Oh my God...”  The other said nothing, bulging eyes fixed on the walrider.

“Why did you kill these guys?” Waylon asked.

“Because...” Miles’ brow creased. “They’re Murkoff, right?”

But Waylon shook his head slowly, and his stomach dropped. “CIA.”

He bit down on laughter that had no discernible source. “Why would the _CIA_ be after us?”

The mute agent found her voice. “You two are suspected of terrorist activity. But Mr. Park has suggested...” She trailed off, eyes shifting back to the walrider.

“Fuck’s sake, let her down already,” Miles told it, and it dropped her, floating back over to hover behind him menacingly.

“It seems like Murkoff pulled some strings,” Waylon continued. “They pinned us for Whistler and put our names and faces up all over the news. When I explained my theory, these two agreed to help us figure things out, but...”

Miles grit his teeth. _But that was before I killed three innocent CIA agents,_ he thought. “ _Shit._ I didn’t think—they walked in on me naked and I kinda freaked out, I was sure they were Murkoff.”

 **These are just more witnesses,** the walrider said from behind him, **Better to dispose of them quickly.** But Miles shook his head vehemently. His stomach was churning in a way that was hard to tune out.

_No, no, definitely no._

It put a semi-tangible hand on his shoulder. **This is not the time for sympathy. Your lives are at stake.**

_No, look, there’s got to be a way we can work something out, we have the situation under control here. If they try to run that’s one thing, but until then we are staying put and not attacking anyone._

“...definitely believe we weren’t lying about _all_ of it,” Waylon was saying. He glanced at Miles, who nodded, then shrugged. With a groan, Waylon walked over until he was facing him head on. “Miles, I’m saying that maybe they can help us. Something like a, a government-ordained investigation of the Murkoff Corporation, imagine how helpful that would be! Even if they can’t shut down everything, they can still do things that we can’t.”

“We can’t believe them, though,” Miles said.

“Does it matter? They believe _this_.” He gestured toward the walrider.

As if to emphasize, it did the thing where the room went cold and your heartbeat started thumping hard and fast in your ears. Miles couldn’t actually feel this, but somehow he knew it was happening to everyone else in the room. Even Waylon had gone pale, although he didn’t budge from where he was standing, and his expression remained set.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s give it a shot. But if things go south, it’s on you, buddy.”

He bit his lip, confused. Where had that come from? Waylon was nodding, stepping away, and Miles closed his eyes as the walrider re-entered him. The numbing cold swept through him, but it didn’t get rid of the jittery feeling he’d had since just before killing the first guy, the one he’d thought was excitement. And that got him thinking that maybe _he_ was the one who was fucked.

In front of him, Waylon was talking to the two alive agents, but he couldn’t focus on what they were saying.

**Sit down?**

He sat down. A little less vertigo, a lot more confusion. In front of them Waylon was quietly speaking to the two agents, and though he could track what they were saying, it wasn’t sticking in his mind. The conversation was like water sliding off a duck, and he let it fade into the background as he let his thoughts turn inward.

It took him a long time to form a coherent picture of what was wrong. For a while, all he could think was, _I fucked up_ , which was pretty unhelpful and obvious. Eventually it crystallized into, _I killed some mostly-innocent people because I got too jumpy._ But jumpy wasn’t the right word for it; paranoid might fit better. Most of the time he was fine, but certain things sent him into high alert mode. That was...worrying. Especially if it happened when he was trying to infiltrate the facility in Georgia—

 **Now is not the time to be thinking about that,** the walrider cut in.

_If not now, then when?_

It didn’t verbalize an answer to that, and he was left wondering whether what he’d been feeling was something it could feed off of.

 **No, you idiot, all this is doing is impairing your ability to function. _This_ —** it did a mental sweep to encompass just generally everything going on— **is not productive.**

Miles snorted. All right, he could believe that. It didn’t make the twisting in the pit of his stomach go away, but at least he was able to relax a little.

He looked up and realized that Waylon had finished talking, and was shaking hands with one of the CIA agents. Waylon was staring him down—well, trying to. His face was too earnest to really pull off a decent glare, but Miles decided that was probably a good thing in this case. Waylon had what they needed, and that was the face of an honest man.

**Whether he wants to be or not.**

_Well, it’s not like it matters much right now._

He almost yelled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It looked like Waylon had finally finished his negotiations.

“You all right?”

Miles shrugged, let himself be pulled to his feet. “Been worse. What now?”

Waylon looked around the room, grimacing at the bodies still laying bloody on the floor. “We definitely need to lay low for a while. And I mean very low.” Miles snorts. “We’ll be sleeping in the car for the foreseeable future.”

“Road trip. Got it.”

“This is _already_ a road trip. What we’re going to do now is more like...camping. Illegal camping.” Waylon nudged his arm, trying to keep his tone light. “C’mon, get your stuff together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter was a little short so this one is a little longer.


	4. Four

There were days on the road spent in silence, just the rattle of the engine and the drone of the radio. There were days when they chatted amiably, as though they were on a normal cross country trip. Then there were the days of constant arguing, about what they knew, what to do about what they knew, just how _little_ they actually knew. On those days the driver would sometimes have to pull over from the strain of arguing with two different people, one of whom was ethereal and either talking through you or over you.

Even if Miles had wanted to hold a conversation, he didn’t particularly feel like one. He spent most of this drive zoned out, head against the window, only noticing long into the trip that the walrider was talking through him, quietly conversing with Waylon. The idea sent a stab of panic through him—it didn’t bode well for the already strong control it had over his body. But he hadn’t gotten this far by being paranoid, at least about it keeping the three of them alive, and it was gonna be a decent imitation of offended if he started now.

And more importantly, he didn’t feel like trying to think too hard about anything at the moment.

They stopped a few hours out from the hotel, pulling off the road and down a dirt track between two fields, far enough back to be almost hidden by the tall crops—corn? It was tall, Miles assumed it was corn. As soon as the engine shut off he got out, walking around in front to look further down the path. Off in the distance, more corn. On the horizon, shadows that might be buildings or might be rolling hills, mountains, clouds, anything.

His legs tingled, letting him know they’d fallen asleep. It didn’t hurt; that kind of thing hadn’t hurt since his possession, but that just meant he had to be even more careful about noticing. Which, yeah, was not something he was good at in the best of circumstances. He took stock of the rest of him, starting from his toes and working his way up. Physically, nothing was wrong, but the jitters from before still hadn’t gone away.

Pathetic, really. After all he’d been through, _this_ was what was getting to him. But he couldn’t deny that it was, and on its heels another thought rose up: for the first time in a long time, he was unsure of what to do.

 **Stop this** , the walrider said, possibly not for the first time.

“Fuck off,” he heard himself answer.

“What’s going on?” Waylon asked from behind them. Miles hadn’t heard him get out of the car.

“ **I was wrong. He has not recovered yet.** ” The words, spoken through his mouth but not by him, left an ashy taste on his tongue that he could never quite describe. He went to lick his lips, but it wasn’t done with them yet. “ **I....don’t know what to do.** ”

It was the last thing Miles expected to hear from it, and it shocked him enough to snap him—at least somewhat—out of the daze that surrounded him since leaving the motel.  “Fuck you.” He walked back to the car, grabbing his bag out of the back seat and turning to shoot a look at Waylon. “I’m fine. Really.”

 **You are a _stubborn_ _brat_ is what you are.** It pulled out of him and hovered next to Waylon, arms crossed. Miles opened his mouth to yell back at it, but had to stop and focus on keeping himself upright. Without its stabilizing presence, his legs were shaking, and he grit his teeth, still leaning against the car, turning his head to glare at it.

“Miles, don’t brush me off,” Waylon said. “Look at where we are!” He gestured at the empty field. “If you want to have a breakdown, go ahead! It’s just us here. And you—“ He turned on the walrider. “Quit antagonizing him, we both know you’re the one who killed those agents and got him so worked up in the first place.”

“No, it’s not like that, this isn’t its fault.” He shuffled around to the front of the car, sliding down to lean against the hood. “Can’t blame the walrider just for doing its thing. I’m the one who’s supposed to be the moral compass, and I...wasn’t.”

Waylon was frowning at him, brow creased. “You can’t blame yourself for—“

“I _wanted_ to kill those guys, Waylon! It felt good to see it happen, to know it was because of me, to—“ His throat caught, and he swallowed heavily.  “I mean, what the hell? That’s not how I am.”

Silence greeted this, and he looked up. Waylon was eyeing him skeptically.

The walrider laughed. **Ah, so that’s what you have been fretting about?**

“What? _What?_ ”

**That is very much how you are.**

 “Miles, I mean, you, uh, you are pretty vindictive. And sort of...violent.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Not what I want to hear right now. Seriously, fuck you both.”

 **Duly noted.** The walrider held up its hands in a pantomime of surrender, and Waylon shot it a sharp glance. “What are you saying _now?_ I told you to stop antagonizing him.”

It huffed and floated off into the corn.

In the distance, he heard the sound of a car rushing by, growing louder and then fainter. Waylon knelt in front of him. “I’m sorry to upset you, but I think we owe each other a little honesty. I don’t think you killed those men because the walrider’s influence is corrupting you or anything like that. You’re human, and you can get mad and hateful just like anyone can. It’s just that you’re holding a much more dangerous weapon than a knife or a gun. So just...keep that in mind, but also, don’t be too hard on yourself. All right?”

Miles shrugged, bit his lip. “Sure thing, Wayl-o.”

“Way...what?”

“Uh...Waylon. Yeah.”

With a sigh, Waylon moved to sit beside him, legs tucked under him to keep his ass out of the dirt. By now the sun was mostly down. Neither of them spoke. No more cars went by, the only sounds were the rustling of the wind through the fields and the car slowly ticking its way cool. And breathing—their breathing. If Miles listened closely he thought he could almost hear Waylon’s heartbeat.

“It’s too bad we can’t make a fire,” he said finally. “Roast some marshmallows, tell ghost stories, the whole camping experience.”

Waylon chuckled dryly. “Like we don’t have enough ghost stories already?”

Miles snorted. He put his hand down, somehow managing to land it on Waylons’ in the process. Neither of them moved. He could feel the walrider watching them from nearby, but it stayed hidden, out of sight. 

“Not quite the adventurous road trip you thought it was gonna be, huh?” he said finally.

“ _You_ thought it was going to be like that. One of us has to actually think through the logistics and worry about what might go wrong.”

Another silence stretched between them. Miles took a deep breath, asked, “So what are we going to do now?”

Waylon let out a breath of his own, shoulders slumping. “We’ll lay low here for now, and leave early tomorrow morning. Get as far away from here as we can, drive until we run out of food. Then it’ll be back to business as usual.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. Wondered just how much time it would cut from their journey. Wondered if his outburst would make Waylon more or less likely to leave at the end of it.

-

They ended up sleeping in the car, Miles in the front passenger seat reclining (almost) all the way back, and Waylon sprawled out across the back two and a half seats. Outside, the walrider was stretching its non-existent legs, racing through the fields and scaring mice and birds. Miles lay there with his eyes closed, unable to sleep, seeing it rush through the undergrowth, feeling the little flickers of fear whenever it got to close to its prey. And the way, after a while of being chased, hiding, being chased, they stopped being afraid.

Something about it made his throat clench up and his eyes burn. _No, nope, not gonna have another breakdown today._

 **I won’t hurt them,** the walrider said, drifting over to gaze at him through the windshield.

 _I know that,_ he thought at it, though he hadn’t really known it until just then. _But_ they _don’t._

**No. The knowledge is not necessary for them. They merely need to observe my actions.**

“Huh.” He barely registered saying it out loud until Waylon stirred, then quieted. _Why do you do it?_ He asked soundlessly, before he could stop himself. _Why don’t you just...kill them?_

It tilted its head questioningly, the way it did when it already knew the answer and expecting you to know it, too. **They are too small to nourish me. And besides, you don’t want me to.**

He stared at it, open mouthed. It laughed, projected an image into his head of their first day together, of Miles slamming his already-injured hand into a wall. And another, of Miles stubbornly refusing to ask Waylon for help as his nightmares got worse and worse.

Miles had to smile. He watched the walrider as it drifted off to slip back into the corn, and let his eyes drift shut.


	5. Five

They left early the next day, Waylon driving for the first half of the day, and after a quick break for lunch, relenting enough to let Miles drive the other half. He kept the walrider close, pressed tight inside his chest, trying to hold onto the warm feeling that he’d woken up to that morning. Even if it did mean listening to Waylon complain and fiddle endlessly with the radio every time it lapsed into static.

Miles spent most of the evening zoning out, half dozing. He woke up with a jolt when they stopped for gas, letting Waylon fill while he ambled inside to buy some snacks. If they were going to be on the road for a while, they’d need a good supply of kitkats. And water, for drinking and also jugs for peeing in. Although, there were stretches of highway that were completely deserted, maybe they could just pee on the side of the road. Well, Miles could, he wasn’t sure about Waylon. Something he’d have to ask.

He bought the bottles anyway, dumping them into the back before sliding into the passenger seat. Waylon was jotting down their mileage in a small notebook, a fact that never failed to make Miles roll his eyes; they’d most likely be switching cars at the next city they reached, so why did it matter?

“Ready to go?” Waylon asked.

“Yup. Got all the essentials. Hey, listen, can you pee on the side of the road?”

The pen stuttered to a stop as Waylon turned to look at him. “I-yes? _Why_?”

Miles shrugged. “Just planning ahead.”

Waylon murmured something in another language that was probably derogatory, and put the key in the ignition.

-

_It was a dream he hadn’t had in a long time, a real classic. Sometimes the perspective was different, but the events were always the same: Miles, somewhat younger, strapped to a wheelchair—and at the same time, Miles, New and Improved Model, standing over him, a pair of wickedly long scissors in one hand._

_Sometimes he was the Miles in the chair, looking up at himself imploringly. Tonight he was the one holding the scissors._

_As his younger self looked up at him pleadingly, breath ragged, it occurred to Miles just how pathetic he had been, how trusting. How little he had known, and how weak that had made him. He resolved to make this the worst experience young Miles would ever have, so he would never have to feel that way again._

_Usually, this was where the screaming would start. But Little Miles’ face had split into a grin while he hadn’t been looking, pupils blown, pale face flushed underneath the dried blood. “Do it,” he urged. “Show me how tough we are.”_

_Miles-Miles dropped the scissors and punched him in the face. The sound of his head snapping back against the wheelchair’s headrest made him waver, but the man in front of him just laughed. So he did it again. And again. By the time he picked the scissors back up the laughter had stopped, replaced by choked and choppy breathing. When he gently tugged one of Not-Miles’ hands forward as far as the cuff would allow, when the cold metal pressed ever so lightly against the skin of one finger, only then did the screaming start._

_-_

He woke up with his own screams echoing in his ears and his stomach turning. Breathing heavily, he lay still for a while, fighting to keep his nausea in check. It didn’t help that the walrider was still perched on his chest, staring down at him, but he didn’t have the strength to push it off. About all he could muster was a deep breath, and the word, “Fuck.” And unspoken: _You_.

“Miles?”

The walrider dissipated, though he could sense it close by. Miles sat up carefully, breathing a sigh of relief. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Waylon shook his head. “I was already awake. You okay?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

**He was watching you,** the walrider chimed in.

“Sorry you had to see that.”

Waylon looked away. “No, I shouldn’t have... I mean, you’ve seen me before, so...”

Miles thought back to that night in the cabin, the walrider massaging Waylon’s temples until he fell asleep, the times since then when Waylon would wake up croaking, _you’re dead, you’re_ dead _._ “Yeah.”

There was an awkward pause. “I guess it’s my turn next, huh?” Waylon tried to crack a smile.

_Go easy on him,_ Miles told it. _At least about Whistler._

**I was planning on it. I know his mind as well as you do.**

A wave of relief washed over him. Of course he knew that already, but still.

“It shouldn’t be for a while, at least,” Miles said, rolling his eyes. It hadn’t actually been that bad, even if it _had_ left him feeling disgusted with himself and what he was capable of, but he didn’t have to tell Waylon that. If there was worse to come, there was no reason for them both to worry about it.


	6. Six

In the morning Waylon took the wheel, driving for most of the day. Somehow it made Miles feel like he was being babied, but he was too tired to complain.

They were cruising along at a good pace, and the walrider had settled itself in the back seat, reading trashy romance novels. Miles disproved on principle, but he definitely hadn’t read any of them so at least it wouldn’t get bored.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen when they reached their destination. Drifting in and out of sleep, though, he couldn’t help but plot all the possibilities. By the time they stopped for takeout, he had decided it would probably go a little something like this:

They would arrive at Helen, Georgia, find a cheap motel, and scope out the area. Maybe Waylon would bail right then, or maybe he’d wait until the scouting was done, and leave it to Miles to infiltrate and eliminate. Or they went in together, and maybe they succeeded and Waylon went home to try and patch things up with Lisa, or maybe they failed and they both died.

The important part was, they’d definitely do what they set out to do, one way or another. Right? That was worth any sacrifice, right? One less Murkoff facility. Maybe that would be enough.

He was jerked out of his reverie as the car shuddered to a halt. “What? What is it?”

Waylon was gripping the wheel tight enough that Miles could sense his pain. “Blockade.”

“Oh, shit. Do you think it’s for us?”

“Who else would it be for? Out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Miles jerked again as Waylon pulled off the road and turned them around, gunning it hard in the other direction.

Behind them, a siren started up. “Well, shit! _Now_ what are we gonna do?”

Waylon grit his teeth, foot still on the accelerator. “I’m working on it! Can’t you use the walrider to obscure our license plates or something?”

“I could have if you’d given me a little warning!”

“Okay. Okay, just...” Waylon let out a shaky breath. “Get out the maps, see if there’s an alternate route.”

Miles fumbled for the handle glovebox, yanking it too hard and releasing a shower of papers. “Shit! I wish you were doing this, you’re a better navigator anyway.” Without bothering to pick them up, he rifled through the nearest ones until he found the one they needed.

“Yeah? Me too,” Waylon replied, swerving onto a side road. “Walrider take the wheel,” he said with just a hint of hysteria in his voice.

 **He knows I can’t do that** , the walrider said, puzzled as Miles grit his teeth and traced their route with one finger. “This way. We can cut back onto the southern highway.”

“ _Which_ way?” Waylon shot back, frantic.

“Turn here!....Right there.” Miles groaned as they rushed past the exit. “Okay, new plan, just get off the main roads and we’ll take care of them.”

Waylon shot a confused look at him. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“No, I mean,  _we’ll_ take care of it.” And the walrider flared with excitement, so dark-bright that the radio shorted out completely. “Nonlethally,” he added firmly.

**Fine, fine.**

The car was silent as they sped down what turned into a dirt road, and passed into dense forest. “Stop here,” Miles said, and Waylon rolled to a stop. It didn’t take long for the police cars to catch up, cutting off their escape. “Stay in the car, okay? I won’t die if they shoot me, but you will.”

Waylon nodded, hands still tightly gripping the wheel. “Just...be careful,” he said finally.

“I’m always careful,” Miles replied, eliciting a small laugh from Waylon.

He stepped out of the car, hands in the air. “Evening, officers. Any particular reason you pulled us over?”

Several of them had already walked onto the road, and some had guns pointed at him. One said, “You ran from a roadblock, son, what’d you think we’d do?”

So they didn’t know who they were looking at. It should’ve been a relief, but honestly Miles was kind of annoyed. _After going this far out of our way, too..._

Aloud he said, “Just give ‘em a scare, okay?”

**With pleasure.**

All at once the lights on the police cars went out. Static crackled as communication radios shut down. Shadows sweep out of the cracks in the pavement. And one by one a look of fear bloomed on the faces of the cops.

Behind him, he could feel the walrider rising up, seemingly through the car, mass spread like the wings of some massive bird. It hung there for a moment, letting the tension build, before diving for one of the men, passing close enough for him to feel the sharp bite of the nanomachines, to suck the warmth from his body and leave him to collapse on his knees, eyes unfocused. But uninjured, probably.

The swarm turned, head scanning the remaining policemen, and it let out a horrifying shriek. That was all it took for them to bolt, clambering back into squad cars and peeling out at dangerous speeds. One of them was actually ballsy enough to try to hit the walrider, though of course it didn’t hit anything. Finally just the one guy was left, still kneeling frozen in place.

Miles looked down at him. “You’d better hurry,” he said, “I can’t hold it back for much longer.”

Even delivered tonelessly, those words seemed to get through, and the man scrambled to his feet, backing away with his eyes still on the three of them until he was ‘safely’ in his car.

As soon as they were alone again, Miles collapsed against the car, hooting with laughter, body shaking with it.

“They....Did you see....I didn’t even....”

Waylon got out of the car and put a hand on his shoulder. “Miles. I need you to be in control right now, okay? I have to find us a new route, which means you’re going to have to drive. Can you do that?”

The walrider floated back over to them serenely and settled into the backseat. Gradually Miles’ laughing fit abated, and he flashed Waylon a winning smile. “Yeah, no problem. God, this is the best I’ve felt in ages!” A fact that definitely didn’t have anything to do  with the psychic energies from scaring the shit out of a bunch of policemen. Total coincidence. But Miles figured he might as well harness the energy while he had it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, and with a sigh, Waylon got in beside him.


	7. Seven

They drove straight on through the day, but Miles’ wheedling eventually wore down Waylon enough for them to grab dinner at a diner along the highway.

Neon pink lights lined the ceiling, leaving Miles to squint at the menu for an inordinately long time. Across from him, Waylon was doing the same.

When he finally closed the menu, though, Waylon was still looking, eyes passing over the options with increased resignation.

“Nothing you want?”

Waylon shook his head, setting the menu down. “It’s not that, it’s just...I don’t know, I just have this craving for something that tastes like home.”

A bored-looking waitress ambled over to take their order: a Reuben for Miles, a simple omelette for Waylon. When they were alone again, Miles asked, “So, where’s home?”

The question seems to startle Waylon out of his stupor. “My childhood home was in Ansan, South Korea. I guess I still think of that as home, even after all these years.”

“Not a lot of comfort food around here then, huh?”

“Here? No. But I’ve lived in Boulder long enough to develop a fondness for Rincon Argentino on Arapahoe.”

Miles laughed delightedly. “No shit? I’ve been there before, imagine if we ran into each other before we even met!”

Waylon smiled back, then pursed his lips, looking down at the paper place mat on the table. “Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

-

_He stood in front of the smoking ruin of Mount Massive, the setting sun casting his shadow in a long line in front of him. A stiff breeze was blowing, and he smelled fall leaves and something about this was wrong, maybe even impossible. But he didn’t have long to think about it, because someone was kneeling amid the wreckage._

_They stood, turned to face Miles, blonde hair catching the light but leaving his face in shadow. Not just his face, either; an unnatural void pooled around him, streaking off his arms and legs in a thick waterfall. But Miles didn’t have to see his face to know who it was, and what had happened to him._

_He started to walk towards Miles in jerking puppet-steps, and soon he was close enough to hear the buzzing clearly. A noise that had hummed through his own veins not so long ago, but now belonged to someone else._

**_This is what I wanted all along_ ** _, the voice said. **Now that I have it, I have no need of you anymore.** _

_Pain hit him, hard and fast, and he sank to his knees. His hands and chest were throbbing and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Part of him felt dumbfounded, convinced there was no way this could be happening to him, but the rest of him was screaming,_ Oh god it’s finally happening, it’s going to kill me, even if it doesn’t I’ll be dead by morning, I’ll

_And when he was dead, it would continue using Waylon like an empty vessel to be piloted wherever it willed, and no one would ever know what had happened—_

His eyes snapped open, and he gasped so hard his lungs burned. The pressure on his chest lessened, and he lay there staring at the shitty motel ceiling, fingers twitching slightly as he reassured himself that yes, it was just a dream, and he wasn’t about to die from massive internal bleeding.

When he’d gotten his breathing even enough to speak, he said, “I will never, _ever_ let that happen.”

The walrider laughed. **Of course it won’t happen. I made you a promise, remember?** It nudged the end table, where a near-full glass of water sat waiting for him, and he drank half of it in one go before remembering to slow down. **And if you find that hard to believe, consider the possibility that I would rather have both of you alive than fulfill some ridiculous villainous fantasy.**

And of course Miles knew that. At the very least it would rather have two people to feed off than one, especially when both those people at least kind of knew what they were doing.

He thought of his camcorder, now long packed away but still with him. There had been a time when he’d wanted to record everything about his experiences and the walrider.  But just like his footage of Mount Massive, that early footage now felt naive and innocent.

Once, early on, there had been a nightmare that felt more real than reality, one where he woke up in a hospital heavily medicated, surrounded by doctors who assured him that everything he’d experienced was just a delusion. Even after waking up for real, it was a long time before he could get through the day without doubting the reality of his situation, at least without testing it. But it was so hard to feel pain properly, and every time he hurt himself badly enough to bleed the walrider needed more energy to heal him, which meant more nightmares, and things had gotten out of control very quickly. So no more of those types of dreams, at least.

He knew it was testing him to see exactly what he could handle, which didn’t make it any better, but was kind of necessary for their continued well-being.

“Where’s Waylon?”

**Out.**

Miles let himself sink back down into bed, rolling over away from the window. After a second he felt the cool weight of the walrider settle behind him.

**You need to start learning to choose your battles.**

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, this advice coming from you, if I let you pick ‘em, you’d try to fight everyone all the time.”

 **This is true.** **But also beside the point. I would not encourage you to fight Waylon, for a variety of reasons.**

Miles swallowed heavily. “Waylon is—“

**He is not going to leave.**

“How do you know that, how can you say for sure?”

 **Nothing is certain,** it replied. _Wow, real comforting._ **But I am a swarm of nanobots and you are merely my host, so you will have to trust me for once.**

Miles relented, snorting in response. They still had a few more days, at least.


	8. Eight

Waylon came back in a different car, and they wasted a couple of hours hiding the old one before it was time to set off again, leaving South Dakota behind. They drove all through the day, and they did end up having to pull over and pee on the side of the road at once point while the walrider laughed at them. But they made good time, and slowly the geography started changing from the broad, flat land to ridges and rivers and so many different structures piled up on each other, from towns to cities and suddenly back to farmland and wildlife conservation areas.

Miles supposed that had been happening the whole journey, and he just hadn’t noticed it before. But it was still the first time they’d traveled this far southeast since Mount Massive, and there was something kind of freeing about being out and away from those places of horror they’d both seen first-hand. Even if the only reason they were out here was because they were on their way to another one.

Miles had been taking his turn at the wheel for only a couple of hours when Waylon nudged him and asked, “How’s our gas level?”

He glanced down, squinting at the unfamiliar dial. “Uh, low. We should start looking.” He hadn’t asked Waylon where he’d gotten the car from: a dark grey SUV with a good chunk of mileage on it already, plus what Miles was adding.

He snorted at his own joke, and Waylon nudged him placidly. “Watch the road, I’ll start looking.”

They pulled into the pumping station and rock-paper-scissor’d for pumping duty. It was almost a formality at this point though; Miles always played paper, and the sight of his missing finger always got to Waylon in that little guilty way. At first Miles had felt bad about it, but now Waylon would just smile ruefully and bat his hand away before climbing out of the car.

“Let’s swap after we fill up,” he said, and before Miles could protest he was shutting the door. Miles shrugged and slid into the passenger seat.

At that point, the sun was going down. Out in Montana, there might’ve been a gorgeous sunset, but here, the light came through reflected off tall buildings, and had to compete with the streetlights. Not as pretty, but it felt a whole lot more like home.

Outside, Waylon was chatting up the gas station attendant. Inside, the walrider was content, once again able to draw the sustenance it needed from the hordes of people around them. Miles leaned back in his chair, head rolling sideways to watch Waylon. He was doing that thing he did with strangers, when he didn’t know how to end the conversation, where he started taking tiny steps backwards, but this guy hadn’t quite gotten the hint yet.

“What do you think he’s saying?”

**You really want to know?**

Miles considered for a moment. “Nah, make something up.”

The walrider didn’t have eyes, but Miles could feel it rolling them anyway. **They are discussing the cost of fuel. Waylon is offering an alternative form of payment, the clerk is insisting that he is a married man....**

“Okay, I’m confiscating all romance novels, from now on it’s all gritty speculative fiction for you.”

**You are a terrible host.**

Miles opened his mouth to respond, but just then Waylon turned and offered him a wave, gesturing at him and saying something to the attendant. He felt himself smiling. That was his Waylon, using other people to get out of awkward social encounters.

 _His_ Waylon...

Miles’ stomach clenched. “Oh, shit.”

The walrider laughed, and Miles put his seat back as far as it would go and tried to pretend he was sleeping. When Waylon got back in the car he just glanced a Miles and shrugged, starting the car up.

That night, camped out in the back of the car, Waylon looked up from the map he’d been scanning and said, “It looks like we’ll be there in two days, maybe less.” His eyes were wide, knuckles white where they curled around the flashlight. Before, Miles hadn’t given much thought to what they were actually setting out to do, but suddenly it felt...real.


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoops! I'm still working on this fic. I've got a usb keyboard now so hopefully I can make up for some lost time.

The next day’s car ride passed in tense silence. So many times Miles wanted to say, _You can still back out if you want to._ The words never came out. He couldn’t even bring himself to joke about any of the road signs they were passing, hell, they passed right through _Kingdom City._

When they reached their destination they would have to act fast, so even though they were still a full day’s drive away, they stopped in St. Louis so Waylon could meet up with his contact inside Murkoff. She’d agreed to meet with them to disclose information on the facility, but only under very specific circumstances, those being that they meet somewhere in public around dinner hour. So until them, they had time to kill.

“So,” Waylon said after his latest phone call to confirm the meeting place, “Where do you want to go?”

Miles thought for a minute. “The shittiest bar possible.”

Normally it wouldn’t be his first choice, but sitting in a corner with Waylon, sipping some vile beer while the walrider sucked up the ambient filth like it was fine wine, made him feel refreshed like no spa visit ever had.

He couldn’t admit how it made him feel like they might actually succeed, because that would also be admitting he hadn’t thought they would. Instead he got himself another beer and tried not to think until it was time to meet their contact.

-

Her name was Max, and the fact that they’d been able to contact her at all was its own miracle. The fact that she’d replied, an even bigger one. And if Murkoff somehow didn’t know about their leak, Miles would consider that their third and last bit of luck for the entirety of the operation.

They met her in a large public park, the kind that had tourists walking around it all through the evening. A place with lots of ambient noise to make it hard for their words to be picked up by anyone listening in. Miles carefully didn’t mention the fact that no radio signals could get through the nanoswarm he harbored if he didn’t want them to.

She told them, with an air of a parent reluctantly admitting their moody teenager had crashed the family car, that the whole operation had gotten more and more militant as time went on. Apparently there used to be over a dozen research branches, but they had gotten whittled down one at a time as funding went dry or they ran out of productive research paths.  They now solely housed organic weapons, though thankfully they were no longer producing any more.

“It’s an imprecise art,” she told them, “You never know how well the conditioning process will work, or what the result will be. Only a few stable experiments remain, but they’re the ones you’ll have to worry about. They’re killing machines. You’re here at a good time; most of the competent experiments have been leased out and won’t be at the facility.”

Miles didn’t bother to mention how counterproductive this would be to wiping out Murkoff’s ability to hurt people. But—and he hadn’t mentioned this to Waylon yet but he thought he’d probably agree—it might be enough just to get rid of the people holding the leash.

“And what about you?” he asked her. “You’re not worried they’re gonna come after you?”

Max shook her head, smiling fiercely. “Oh, please. Like I would’ve done this if I didn’t know how to protect myself.” Next to him, Waylon shifted uncomfortably. “Besides, if y’all are successful in your mission I won’t have to worry, right?”

Miles laughed. “Hey look, someone here’s optimistic about our abilities!”

That earned him a sheepish grin from Waylon, but Max looked suddenly serious. “We all heard about what happened at Mount Massive—not like the details, but y’know. The resulting fallout. And now Whistler? What’s one more lab to the likes of y’all?”

“What exactly are they saying about Whistler?” Miles asked, feeling lead in his stomach.

“That’s the thing, they went radio silent, and suddenly the execs are telling us to forget they existed. Whatever you guys did, they don’t want it getting around if they can help it.”

_Not that they could help it the first time, with Mount Massive_ , Miles thought sardonically. He couldn’t help but feel some relief, though, knowing she didn’t know the details about Whistler. What they’d had to do to those children.

“And our way in?” Waylon asked.

She rummaged in her back, pulling out two ID badges. “Obviously you’ll have to change the photos, but the magstrips are legit so as long as no one gets too close it should be fine.” Her watch began to beep, and she glanced down at it. “I should go. Anything else you boys need?”

Waylon shook his head, accepting the badges and shoving them in his pocket. “Thank you for doing this, Max.” He elbowed Miles in the ribs until he coughed and said, “Yeah, thanks.”

She flashed them both a smile and said, “Good luck.” Then she was off, ambling back down the path to join the trickle of people wandering to and fro.

There was half a minute of silence as they watched her go. Finally Miles took a breath and said, “I guess we’re all set, then,” and Waylon nodded in agreement.

They walked back to the car without looking at each other.

-

By tacit agreement, Miles took over driving that night. With two coffees  in the cupholders, he figured he could make it all the way to Nashville with good traffic.

After they got out of the city, Waylon stopped offering navigation advice, instead opting to wad his sweatshirt into a pillow and lean against the window. It didn’t seem like a comfortable sleeping position, but Miles knew-without-thinking that he really was asleep. So he drove in silence.

Two hours in, after both coffees were gone and he was feeling cold all over, the walrider slipped out of his skin and settled into the seat behind him. He made it another hour before he finally had to pull over, ducking into a rest stop to empty his bladder. Washing his hands in the greenish basin, his reflection staring back at him in the dirty mirror, he felt more like a zombie than he had since that first night back in his own apartment.


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait but this took forever to edit! For reasons that will become obvious when you read it. 
> 
> Also the rating has been updated accordingly.

They checked into the motel without speaking. The room looked like any other they had stayed at, but somehow it felt different. _Because of what we’re going to do when we leave here,_ he thought. From Nashville to their destination outside of Athens was roughly a 5 hour drive, and they would be making it tomorrow and immediately putting their plan into action.

Miles dropped his bags in a heap on one of the beds, throwing himself on top with no regard for what he might be breaking or bending inside. The walrider took the opportunity to split from him, drifting off to inspect the room.  Probably picking out a new souvenir, Miles thought wryly. His bag was starting to accumulate random knicknacks they’d stolen from the places they’d stayed. At first it was all the walrider’s doing, but to be honest, he enjoyed it too.

Across from him, Waylon was pulling a folded pile of clothes from his suitcase and setting them on a pulled-open drawer from the bedside table.

 “Hey,” Miles said, pushing himself into a sitting position, and Waylon immediately stopped unpacking to look at him. “We need to talk. About what you’re  gonna do after this.”

For a beat, Waylon just stood there. Then he pursed his lips and went back to unpacking. “I don’t think now is the best time. After we’ve succeeded—if we do succeed—we can worry about it then.”

Miles felt his hands curling into fists, and made a conscious effort to relax them. “We have to talk about this _now_ , because tomorrow we’re gonna be pretty fucking busy. If we have to split up afterwards to throw off pursuit, who knows when we’ll have the chance!” And if that happened, there was a very real chance that Waylon would take that as an opportunity to just...leave. That would be that. He let the feeling rise to the surface, for the walrider’s benefit but also because _fuck_ , he’d been pushing it down for _so long_.

Waylon straightened, turning to face him. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, then fine, let’s talk about it now. I told you before, this is as far as I go. And I had planned to break it to you more gently, but I think it would be best if I didn’t waste too much time with you afterwards.”

“But _why_?” He hadn’t meant the word to contain that much venom, but there. It did. “After everything we’ve been through together—“

“Because I’m turning into someone different, and it scares me! That’s why Lisa—“ He swallowed hard, shook his head.

Miles grit his teeth. “You think doing one more after this one will suddenly be the tipping point for you? Like you’re not already someone different?”

Waylon looked at him stone-faced, gripping his knapsack with white knuckles. “Which is why I should go.” He took a deep breath. “Miles, I’m sorry, but that’s why I _have_ to go. I know I promised I’d help you but every time I set foot in a Murkoff facility I come out feeling less _human_.”

Miles waited, but he didn’t continue. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to keep his anger in check. Said, “It’s not gonna get any better.”  That got Waylon looking at him. “You don’t go back to being a normal person after going through the shit we’ve been through. And if you really think that’s how it works you better stop right now because I doubt this next one’s gonna be any better.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, absolutely didn’t want Waylon to walk out on him tonight. He glanced back at Waylon, who was looking much wetter around the eyes. _Shit._

**Well, I think you managed to get your point across.**

“Look, maybe that’s not—“

“No, I get it. You’re probably right. But to say it like that, it’s just so—so _final_. I don’t know if I can—“

Pushing himself to his feet, he put a hand on Waylon’s shoulder, and considered it progress that Waylon didn’t pull away. “Sorry, I mean, it’s not the end, right? We’re not sailing toward some extended death metaphor—“ he cut himself off. _Are we?_ Before Waylon could respond he pressed on. “Look, just, I mean,” and before he could register his actions, he was leaning in and pressing his lips to Waylons’.

Waylon froze, shoulder muscles tensing, and Miles pulled away, thought, _shit._

“Um,” he said. “That wasn’t me. That—it was the walrider.” But it had caught on to what he was going to say, and he could feel it shaking its head behind him. It merged with him, taking control before he could think about stopping it, and said, “ **That was not me.** ”

He figured once it had cleared its name it would retreat, leaving Miles to clean up his untruths, so he was caught totally off guard when it continued, “ **But this is,** ” and leaned forward to kiss Waylon.

It was a weird feeling, kissing someone and not being in control of your own mouth, and _oh_ , that was an interesting train of thought. 

_No, nope, definitely not the time for that..._ Most of his body was still under his control, and he pushed himself backwards. He tried to speak, ended up standing there with his jaw working soundlessly as he tried to take it back from the walrider. Waylon was staring at him with a similar expression of shock, albeit with his mouth closed. And he was flushed. Miles wondered if that was mirrored in his own face along with the rest of his expression.

“S-sorry,” he managed finally.

It took maybe half a minute for Waylon to manage a response. When he did, it was to push his bangs back and say, “I have to ask you, for all those fantasy books you read do you have _any_ idea what a huge death flag you’ve just raised?”

It seemed ridiculous. It seemed like he should laugh. But all he could manage was a sort of half smile. “Gee, Waylon, you sure do have a way of making a guy feel appreciated.”

“I.” He swallowed heavily. “You know I can’t....think about this right now.”

“Yeah, I know.” He threw on a smile. “Too much like the matrix, right? That big orgy before they go off to bomb the robots? You’re right, total death flag. Though that’s not really fantasy, it’s more science fi—“

He was cut off as Waylon pulled him forward into another kiss. Startled, Miles rewound the past few minutes to see whether he had missed something, but it was hard to do with Waylon still pressing against him. When he pulled back, Miles muttered, “Not thinking about this, cool, I can do that,” and was gratified to hear Waylon laugh.

“Yes, see if you can shut up for once,” he shot back, pressing their foreheads together.

Miles shut up. In fact he stood there completely mute as Waylon kissed him again, this time a lot more softly, and put a tentative hand on his upper arm. His heart was beating fast, faster than it had since before becoming the host. But the static was still all through him—in fact it was buzzing on his lips and skin, and Waylon pulled back, asked, “Is that you this time? Or...”

“I dunno....both of us? **We both love you, Waylon,** ” and Miles could feel his cheeks burning as he cut in, “No, shut up, don’t listen to it, it doesn’t understand emotions,” but Waylon was just shaking his head, biting down on a grin.

_Death flag_ echoed in his mind as he got his hands inside Waylon’s shirt, but he was finding it so, so difficult to care whether or not he died tomorrow. At least, he was sure the infiltration would work, and that was—oh—

Things he hadn’t even imagined: Waylon’s breath hot against his neck, his own hands reaching out and finding Waylon’s hips and just _hanging on_ , the cloud of euphoria swirling around both of them like blackflies in a summer haze, and all of it, _all of it,_ was because of everything that happened and he wouldn’t ever go back and undo it.

He wanted—wanted something, anything. When Waylon kissed him again it was accompanied by this one halting breath, a motion he would have interpreted as unhappy except it wasn’t.

And then they were both kneeling on the hard floor, pressed together, and Miles was doing it too, that little breath, only it choked off into a laugh at the end. “We should, uh, move probably?”

Waylon hummed in agreement. Then Miles’ words seemed to sink in, because his eyes snapped open and he flushed red. “I-I guess we should.” But he made no move to get up, and neither did Miles, until the Walrider huffed, materializing above them like a bird of prey and bodily lifting them up onto the nearest bed.

“Fuck, I forgot you could do that,” Miles said, laughing. He hoisted himself up on his elbows to make sure Waylon was all right, and found him lying under him, pulse running fast and pupils blown wide. His hands were still clutching Miles’ shoulders for dear life, and it made his heart twist so strangely that the only way to get it to stop was to run his tongue up the column of Waylon’s neck and hear him groan in response.

Miles buried his face in the soft plane of Waylon’s stomach, and even with his eyes closed he could see himself, see the two of them, and when Waylon opened his eyes and his gaze met the walriders’, Miles felt his cock stiffen almost against his will.

And maybe Waylon felt similarly because his grip on Miles tightened hard enough to bruise, and then he was pushing Miles up far enough to get his pants undone.

Miles would have liked to take the time to look him over, take in every scar and freckle, but the part of Waylon’s lips instilled him with a sense of urgency that had him fumbling at his own jeans and grinding their hips together as soon as enough underwear was out of the way.

He felt a cold hand reach between them and take hold of both their dicks, and knew with delirious clarity it was _the walrider_.

“Miles, is that—“

Miles sucked in a labored breath, forehead pressed to Waylons’. “Mm-hm,” he managed, voice coming out pitched high and strained.

Waylon let out a small, “Oh.” Miles couldn’t help but agree. Logically the nanomachines should hurt his skin like a thousand stinging insects, but instead it felt soft, almost like water. Water that was pressing him against Waylon in a very intimate fashion.

The walrider’s hand gave them both an experimental squeeze, and he choked on his next thought. Then it started moving for real, and all he could do was hold Waylon close and think, _it’s true, it’s all true,_ though his mind couldn’t hold onto what exactly ‘it’ was.

Eyes shut tight, but still seeing Waylon’s face, Miles came, and felt Waylon quickly follow.

They lay there together, breathing hard, and Miles became aware of Waylon clutching his shoulders hard enough to hurt. At some point the walrider had disintegrated and sunk beneath his skin, and Waylon’s chest was feverishly warm against his. Maybe he was making Waylon cold, but Miles really didn’t want to move, and though Waylon’s grip on him loosened, he didn’t let go, hands running up and down the planes of his back, skating lightly over the scarred bullet holes.

Finally Miles said, “So....should we talk about this?”

That made Waylon groan in a very unsexy way. “I think we’ve done enough talking for one day.”

Miles snorted. “That’s fair.”


End file.
